Fun Stuff and Humorous Stories by C.L. (Cindy) Beck
Today we're discussing the vital topic of the effect of fossil fuel combustion on earth’s atmosphere. But first, let's talk about an even more germane topic—body hair.
Last Christmas I bought Russ a new electric razor, and being the nice guy that he is, he offered to let me have his old one. I looked at it, cocked my head, and contemplated the possibilities. It could be used to shave my legs, which meant no more slices on my ankle that require ten stitches to close.
A few days later, while hurrying to get ready for church, a truly ingenious idea zipped into my brain. I said to myself, “That razor worked pretty well on leg hair ...."
"... so why go crossed-eyed trying to look into my armpits while shaving them with a safety razor, when I can look in the mirror and use an electric shaver?”
Perhaps I need to clarify. For those with beards, and for the other 90% of the women on the planet, a safety razor is the pink one with the double blade that sits in your shower for 2 years, and that you’ve used to shave your legs and underarms. The same one that at this point is so dull it pulls the hairs out one by one. And yet, if you run your thumb over it to see if the blade has any life left, you’ll need ten stitches to close the wound. Yup, that’s the one.
Well, as I said, this ingenious idea to shave my armpits with an electric razor zipped through my brain. I whipped it out (the razor, not my brain) and ran it across my left armpit—
“Aaaiiii!” My scream of pain bounced through the house and woke Corky Porky Pie, the dog, up from a sound sleep. He ran barking into the bathroom as I threw the electric razor into the sink and grabbed my stinging armpit. “Russ, come help me. I’ve cut myself!”
He barreled into the bathroom, and now the three of us stood crammed in a room the size of a telephone booth—only one with a toilet instead of a pay phone—and inspected my underarm. Russ patted me on the shoulder. “It’s not bleeding much yet, but you’ve cut it in several places and you might get a spot or two of blood on your church clothes if you don't wait a while to get dressed.”
Giving him my best Clint Eastwood/Dirty Harry stare, while still holding my arm in the air and dancing around the room in pain, I said, “What do you mean it’s not bleeding yet? Of course it is! It's hemorrhaging! What can I use that will help?”
Russ looked dubious. “I don’t know. A dab of toilet paper?”
And that’s when I had my second brilliant idea of the day. Around our house we use a handy little product that functions as the perfect bandage—one that doesn’t fall off easily and seals the wounds so it heals in half the time. Fanning my stinging armpit, which coincidentally stung even more now that I could see it in the mirror, I said, “Go get the Super Glue!”
At that point, Russ failed me. Oh yes, he went and grabbed the Super Glue all right, but where he failed me is that he should have said, “No, that’s a harebrained idea if I’ve ever heard one. Let me take you to the doctor for such a mortal wound.”
What he did say while brushing on the adhesive was, “Hold still or you’re gonna have Super Glue running all the way down your ribs and as soon as you put your arm down, it’ll permanently stick to your side.”
By the time he finished painting the stuff on, I no longer felt the pain of the razor cuts. Instead, my brain was numb from the fumes, yet I had to continue holding my arm straight up in the air for fear of gluing my armpit to itself. I walked around for hours looking like a flagpole. Eventually, it all healed and days later the glue finally wore off … but not before it broke into stuck-tight chunks that kept stabbing me in my underarm.
There was one small consolation to the incident, however. I figured out why the razor sliced and diced instead of shaving. Because I had deodorant on, the razor’s blades stuck to the skin, acting more or less like an electric meat cleaver, and thereby giving me such grievous wounds.
I’ve learned my lesson. From here on, if I accidentally cut any sensitive areas, I am not using Super Glue. And I’m not shaving my armpits with an electric razor, either … instead, I’ll let the hair grow long and put it in French braids.
------ © C.L. (Cindy) Beck------
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